


clapped in irons

by Jemima_Puddleduck, undodgedbullet



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Freya & i did a thing, Missy is hurting & the Doctor wants to help her but can't really, Other, lowkey violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemima_Puddleduck/pseuds/Jemima_Puddleduck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/undodgedbullet/pseuds/undodgedbullet
Summary: Spending a thousand years in a vault is hard for everyone.





	clapped in irons

They had both known a thousand years stuck in a vault wouldn’t be easy, but neither of them were able to accurately estimate just how difficult it would actually be. Learning to be good, after spending the majority of her regenerations being the complete opposite, is one of the hardest things Missy has done in all of her lives. She doesn’t think she’d be able to make it if it wasn’t for the Doctor’s patience and kindness as he still greets her with a smile every day, even when she throws tantrums and threatens to kill him if he doesn’t let her out. It isn’t easy but it’s manageable and they figure they just might be able to get through it as long as they have each other.

 

But when the screaming starts, neither of them has any idea how they’re going to survive a thousand years. The Doctor feels like he’s going to lose his mind, not because he’s annoyed but because he doesn’t know how to help her, and Missy has never felt so alone or trapped or helpless.

 

On just one of the many bad days, the Doctor sits slumped against the doors of the vault, his head in his hands as the cool metal pushes uncomfortably into his back. The door shakes behind him in a horribly familiar pattern of four. He holds his breath, waits, then the screaming starts. He keeps his eyes screwed shut as Missy tears herself apart just metres away.

 

Inside the vault, her hands ache as she slams them against the unforgiving metal. Missy allows the pain to settle in her joints, hissing in a breath before pounding once more. Deep down, she feels she deserves the bloody knuckles and the bruised arms, yet she continues to scream against the injustice of her imprisonment. She and the Doctor both know that the worst punishment she could receive is being locked up in her own mind, and she’d rather be dead than torture herself for a millennium. The desperation to escape from herself makes her claw at the doors and screech like an animal until her respiratory bypass engages and she drops to her knees, gasping and begging.

 

They both completely lose track of time when she gets like this. Nardole has his own thoughts on the situation but he keeps them to himself; he knows the Doctor is not the one screaming himself voiceless but that doesn’t mean the Doctor is any less vulnerable than Missy, and Nardole has decided it’s best to not say anything, especially after the first time he walked to the vault to find the Doctor sitting outside of it with a pained expression on his face as tears silently roll down his cheeks. He brings plates of food even though he knows the Doctor won’t make any attempt to eat and otherwise stays clear, unable to stop himself from worrying because every time this happens it ends up lasting for _days_. It feels like weeks, months, years for the Doctor and even longer for Missy, both of them wanting nothing more than to make it stop.

 

Missy pauses her pounding for a moment, exhausted, and places the front of her hand against the door. The only thing she needs right now is the Doctor but she can’t say it out loud, instead imagining the connection she feels through the door is him reaching out to her and not just her own wishful thinking, not knowing it really is him on the other side of the vault. He places his hand on his side of the door, hoping that he’ll be able to get through to her this time.

 

Missy slumps down as the exhaustion finally overtakes her and she stares at her hands as she curls up on the stone floor. The bloody knuckles only serve to remind her of her previous life, the brutal fights that left her wondering whether the blood on her hands was her victims’ or her own. She fights sleep, knowing it will only lead her further into hell as images of burning cities and war torn Gallifrey fill her nights. Despite the shiver of terror the thought of sleep produces, her body betrays her and her eyes slip closed.

 

The Doctor feels his own eyes closing, and realises that it isn’t his own exhaustion but Missy’s, projecting through the door. He places a hand to the metal, feeling the waves of fitful sleep her open, unguarded mind releases. He can see her clearly in his mind, a broken ragdoll left discarded. He’d found her like that every night for the past few months and every time he went to her, he left a fragment of his hearts with her in the vault. Pressing his forehead to the doors, he feels her sleeping consciousness reaching out to him. Her mind is so broken, thoughts so garbled, that he truly wonders how she can survive inside it. He wipes his damp cheeks and blinks once, twice, before putting his hand up to the lock. He hesitates, then, still feeling her aura of sleep, lets the doors creak open.

 

He’s seen her while she’s asleep before but this is nothing like that. She usually looks moderately calm while she sleeps but now her expression doesn’t appear to have even an ounce of calmness in it when he peeks in and sees her sprawled out across the floor, just the same as the majority of nights since they started this.

 

He shuts the door behind him as he fully enters and kneels next to her, completely opening up his mind and hoping that she’ll feel his presence. He places his hand on her cheek and she unconsciously moves towards him, searching for more of his touch. He closes his eyes and sends a message, an _I’m sorry, I’m here for you, we’ll get through this_ , and when he opens them again Missy still looks distressed but he hopes the tiny bit of comfort now showing on her face isn’t just from his imagination. He wants to use his regeneration energy to help with any physical injuries she has but he doesn’t want to cross any boundaries so he settles with pressing a kiss to both her hands, the knowledge that he’ll be able to bandage up her wounds once she’s calm enough during the day the only thing stopping him from doing it right now.

 

He scoops her up into his arms and feels his hearts stutter in his chest because he hates this, hates how pliant she is when she’s the strongest person he knows, and carries her over to her bed.

 

She sighs as she’s slowly lowered to the mattress, accepting the warmth enveloping her despite the fact that she never seeks it out herself. The Doctor arranges the covers around her, his hearts aching as she curls up like a small child, soft and vulnerable. He almost wants to leave, knowing that just seeing her this way is an intrusion, that she’d be mortified if she knew he’d been here while she’s this broken and bare. Her hair hangs loose around her face and he reaches out, feeling more warmth seeping into her skin as he pushes a stray strand of hair from her eyes. He lets the lock of hair curl around his finger and he hurts, resisting the urge to fist his hands in her loose curls. Her head tilts almost imperceptibly towards his touch and he studies her sleeping face as silent murmurs and prayers flow from her moving lips. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, unable to resist the need to be close to her. Another brush of lips lands first on her cheek, then her delicate nose before their lips meet for the shortest of seconds. She doesn’t wake and he sits down next to her, rubbing Gallifreyan patterns into her shoulder. Her sleeping form again leans into the touch, her unconscious brain desperate for comfort despite the fact she would flinch away from him if she were awake.

 

The Doctor keeps his silent nightly vigil, playing the hero, ready to pull her from the inevitable nightmares. Sure enough, she stirs, her legs twitching and hands clenching. He murmurs reassurance, gazing down at her panicked face and stroking her soft hair. It forces him to think of his own war nightmares and he shudders, wishing he could strip the pain away and take it all for her. He could take another heap of painful things for himself and survive it himself, but he doesn’t want Missy to have to bear them.

 

He puts his hands on both sides of her face, hoping he can give Missy enough peacefulness to get through to the morning without being tense like she’s been since she got put in the vault. It’s bad enough she’s troubled during the day but he hates that it continues even when she’s unconscious. He’s all too familiar with restless nights, having experienced them countless times before, and he knows she already has enough to worry about without adding not being able to sleep comfortably into the mix.

 

He normally doesn’t do this but he climbs into the bed next to her and pulls her close. He’ll have to be gone by the time she wakes up but it’s the least he can do, letting her subconscious know she isn’t alone.

 

He buries his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, and she smells like home. He’d be lying if he said that he was only doing this for her, as there was a part of him that was still desperate for her after all this time. He craved the weight of her in his arms and her tickling breaths on his neck. He still felt guilty for holding her like this, knowing she wouldn’t comply if she were awake, but then her she leans closer into his chest and he pushes the thought from his mind. Her body seems to melt into him, finally relaxed, and her arm lazily reaches up to drape over him. He knows she’s still fast asleep, yet his hearts still stutter in his chest at her unconscious self’s willingness to curl into him. Trying not to think about how truly starved she must be of any contact, he puts a hand into her thick hair, pulling out wayward pins and loosening the knots with his fingers. He feels her head press into his hand and she sighs in her sleep, her expression finally softening to one of contentment. He takes in her pale face and realises she’s thinner, her cheekbones more prominent than usual and he vows to make her eat something the next day. Faded mascara tracks run down each cheek and he smudges them away with his thumb, trying not to think about her crying.

 

The Doctor feels himself drifting off with Missy bundled up in his arms. Their foreheads press together and waves of sleep permeate between them. It’s then that a sudden wave of pain forces the Doctor to spring back from her, and despite the loss of contact he can still see the images of blood and fire that her nightmare has delivered him. He shivers, keeping her at arms length while he catches his breath and watches her as she whimpers, clawing at pure white bed covers with bright red nails.

 

“Missy,” he murmurs, quietly at first, because he knows she needs to rest but he’d rather wake her up than allow her to continue being tortured even in her sleep. She continues her movement, searching for something to comfort her or at least reassure her she’s safe, but she doesn’t show any sign that she heard him. Her frown deepens and the Doctor says louder, “Missy, I’m here, wake up.”

 

She does wake up this time and it takes her a moment to realize that she had only been dreaming. The Doctor reaches out to her but she jerks away, an automatic response. She does want him close but right now she just feels fragile and weak and she doesn’t want him to be near her when she’s like this.

 

“Get out,” she says, her voice hoarse. The Doctor doesn’t move. “Get out,” she repeats, more frantic this time. She can feel the tears pricking at her eyes and she knows there would be nothing more humiliating than crying in front of him. He still doesn’t move and she turns away on the bed to hide her face. The contents of her dream flood back to her, images of war, pain and suffering in the midst of Gallifrey’s darkest moments. She sees the fields she used to play in, watches them slowly disappear as the tall orange flames embrace the red grass.

 

The Doctor watches, desperate to pull her back into his arms and stroke her hair until her now laboured breathing returned to normal. She instead lies alone, enforcing her own isolation, and the Doctor looks over her as she shivers, not with the cold, but with the pure, primal fear of what she’s been forced to relive.

 

“I’m not going to leave you,” the Doctor says softly, and he really does mean it. Not just right now but for the rest of time. He’s never leaving her ever again. “If you really want me to go then I will but you won’t be alone; I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

 

He waits for her to tell him to go again, but it doesn’t come. She hesitates, because of course she craves him being close to her but she doesn’t think she deserves it, or that she can admit it. She knows he isn’t going to judge her or anything like that, he’s made it very clear he’s here for her, but it’s much easier to suffer by herself than to tell him that she needs him. She wants to turn back to him and let him hold her while she forgets about everything that isn’t his embrace but she doesn’t, remaining silent.

 

Wondering if he’s possibly pushing his luck, he reaches out a hand towards her. She hears him move, but doesn’t flinch away. She tenses up as his hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and they both stay still, the air around them almost vibrating with the tension. The Doctor doesn’t know how to proceed, realising that this is brand new territory and he isn’t normally the one taking the lead. Back at the academy, it was always the Master guiding him, but when he looks at Missy now he can hardly recognise his old friend. He knows he has to help her, and his hearts ache whenever he watches her struggle, knowing he can’t fix everything for her as much as he would like to.

 

Lost in his thoughts, his thumb rubs gentle shapes into her shoulder and he feels the tension dropping from her muscles. The urge to hug her returns, but he knows it would only push her further away. He wants to comfort her, not humiliate her. He could tell from the way she was forcing herself not to lean further back into his hand that she wouldn’t allow herself to show how in need of comfort she was. Allowing herself into his embrace would be an admission of weakness, and however tired and desperate she might be, she wasn’t ready to show him how broken she was.

 

Missy is very touchy this time but only when it’s her initiating it, not the other way around. This is uncharted waters for both of them; they want the same thing but neither of them are willing to say it out loud. He wants her to know she doesn’t have to do this alone, but he understands she feels weak asking for help. He leaves his hand on her shoulder for a few more moments before pulling it away, forcing himself to not pull her closer to him instead. He immediately wants to replace his hand but he holds back because this is about Missy right now, not him, and he doesn’t want to upset her more than he already has.

 

Missy closes her eyes when he pulls away, wanting nothing more than for him to return, missing his warmth as soon as it’s gone. He’s still there but it feels like they’re a million light years apart now, neither of them willing to get too close no matter how much they would like to.

 

“Doctor,” she whispers at the loss of his embrace. He waits for her to say something more but it doesn’t come.

 

“Would it be better if I left? Missy?” he asks quietly, getting the sinking feeling that his presence is only serving to make her more uncomfortable. He’s ready to give her the space he thinks she needs but she suddenly turns and both of his arms are held fast in her bruising grip before he knows what’s happening. He moves to place an arm around her but she forces it back to the bed. Her head thumps into his chest almost aggressively, not allowing herself to be comforted, but seeking out the comfort she desperately needs. She doesn’t relax, her legs gently kicking against his as she holds him there. She moans softly like an animal in a trap and the Doctor wants to pull her to him, but she refuses to let go. “Missy, I’m here, I’m staying,” he says, as softly as he can manage. Missy holds him still, but stops kicking. Her eyes tell him she’s sorry but he knows she wouldn’t be able to say it. “It’s okay.”

 

Staring into his soft, age-worn eyes, she finally breaks. She lets go and pushes herself into his arms, making sure to face away and press her back into his chest. She was allowing his touch, but didn’t want to see his pity, the worst part. She’s desperate for contact, but if she asks for it she can see it in their eyes. They _pity_ her. It makes her feel broken, weak. The fact that they pity her gives her the feeling that there’s something about her that needs to be pitied. She blinks the thought away, pressing further back into his chest and wishing he’d hold her just that little bit tighter.

 

“Doctor,” she whispers again into his shirt, clutching him close to her as if he’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold onto him tight enough. She’s tense in his arms and he cautiously moves his hand into her hair, lightly running his fingers through it when she doesn’t say anything more. He wishes he could see her face, to find some hint that tells him how he can help her. He should feel like they’re making progress, since she’s allowing this contact, but he knows — _never trust a hug, it’s just a way to hide your face_.

 

He feels his shirt starting to get wet and realizes it’s from her tears, as she cries silently from where she’s in his grasp. This is almost worse than when she screams, because now she’s tired and has given up. He keeps his hold on her light, so she knows he’s not thinking of going anywhere but so she can pull away if she wants to.

 

Missy forces herself not to push back into the Doctor’s touches, an element of her still not wanting to admit how much she needs this. She relishes the feeling of his light fingers on her aching scalp and soon the racing thump of her hearts slows to a steady beat. The Doctor, his arm slung across her chest, feels the slowing of her breath under him. He sees her begin to relax and finally allow herself to drift away. Her sleep slackened limbs melt into him and he sighs contentedly into her back, knowing that even if she wasn’t about to open up to him or let him see the true extent of her weakness, he could still help her like this and maybe, just maybe, he could save her.

 


End file.
